


Following the Rules

by caesia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-28 23:55:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caesia/pseuds/caesia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa takes comfort in living according to rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Following the Rules

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at writing anything even slightly sexy. Hope you enjoy!

Sansa has changed in many ways since leaving Winterfell as a child. Captivity in King’s Landing, lies and manipulation in the Vale, chaos and slaughter on the war path north towards home- these things haunt her dreams, and she no longer sings of knights and princesses as she did when she was a child. But rebuilding Winterfell and living there with what remains of her family has given her hope as well as purpose, and Sansa feels more herself with each passing day.

One thing that hasn’t changed, however, is Sansa’s abiding love of etiquette. And with etiquette, according to Sansa, comes rules. 

Her rules for Rickon are the same ones she grew up following (chew with your mouth closed, say please and thank you, no wandering Winterfell after bedtime) with a few additions- Sansa certainly didn’t need a rule against biting the maester when _she_ was a child. 

She makes rules for herself, too. If she feels the mask of Alayne tug at the corners of her mouth and slip across her cheek, she must stop whatever she is doing and go to the godswood, to sit under the tree where her real father prayed. When letters arrive from Gendry Waters, who chases shadows and rumors of Arya in Essos, she must count to five and open them right away, else she will wait and wait, touching the edges hidden in her pockets during the day and tucking them under her pillows at night, holding on to hope that this one will finally bear good news. 

Sansa’s rules for Jon, though, are of a different sort entirely. The list has grown since the day she convinced him to accept the Dragon Queen’s offer to excuse him from the Watch if he agreed to be her heir, a legitimized Targaryen. More like begged him, as she remembers it, while her eyes glistened with tears, but Jon is more generous in his recollection, and he insists she made a clear, rational argument before kissing him so sweetly he had no choice but to stay. No marking her throat above the necklines of her gown- she’d been forced to wear a puffy collar better suited for a woman twice her age to greet guests at dinner that night, and every single one had made a similar comment about newlyweds. No visiting the kitchens in the afternoons after drilling his men in the yard, especially if he wore only his tunic- she loves the way his muscles move under the thin cotton and the way his curls stick to his forehead, but dinner had been delayed nearly two hours, and the cook had glowered fiercely and ordered all the counters to be _thoroughly_ cleaned afterwards. 

Some of their rules become more like elaborate rituals. When Jon returns home in the evenings after trips to the wolfswood or neighboring keeps, the chill from riding through icy winds clings to his skin. He comes to her fresh from the stables, still smelling of leather and sweat, and buries his face between her thighs, his frozen cheeks and hot tongue making her gasp and whine with pleasure. When she can no longer bear Jon’s teasing, Sansa pulls him up the bed and arranges him on his back. She presses kisses to his face, gleaming with her own wetness mingled with melting frost from his beard, and sinks onto him. As she rocks and twists her hips, Sansa twines her fingers with his, stiff with cold, to help her move. Forbidden from touching her with his hands, Jon urges her on with hot words, filthy words, until she comes with a whimper and he spills with a long groan. 

Rules are important, Sansa thinks to herself as she nuzzles against Jon’s chest, heated by their exercise. Jon may tease her for her strictures all he wants- she’d like to see _him_ come up with a better way to be welcomed in from the cold.


End file.
